


The Devil You Know

by ladyarcherfan3



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, misuse of medicinal drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarcherfan3/pseuds/ladyarcherfan3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A confrontation with a revengeful element of his past sends Robin into a world where nightmares and memory blend into something far more terrifying than either.<br/>Warnings: Drug induced hallucinations</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadows

The setting sun dyed Sherwood Forest the dull red of drying blood as a solitary wagon rattled down the Great North Road.  It was a rather unnerving sight, made the more so by black and red patches of shadowed light that spilled across it.  It appeared to be a gypsy caravan, but the rounded roof and sturdy sides had nothing of the joviality normally associated with such a vehicle.  The wooden walls were finished with a dark lacquer that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.  Across the door on the rear of the wagon was a white cross that blazed out against the darkness around it.  The coloring and shape suggested Hospitaller, but there was something wrong about it, a slight twist to the angles in the arms, the faintest hint of dull red around the edges.

 

On the driver’s seat, silently guiding the dark horses was a non-descript man of middle height and girth.  His brown hair and trimmed beard were shot with grey and his eyes never left the road in front of him.  The black robes he wore also suggested the healer knights but did not confirm it.  The entire scene sent a feeling of unease though those that saw it, though they couldn’t place it.  It was the lack of any real proof that there was something wrong and the promise of something familiar that prevented people from shying away completely. 

 

Robin shifted nervously in his hiding place: a well situated tree blind near the road.  He had been on his way to Knighton that evening when he heard the sound of the wagon along the road.  Alone, he had no hope of ambushing it, but he at least could have a look and decide if it would be worth stopping on its return trip.  He quickly clamored up the tree with the help of a rope that had been placed there for such a purpose and settled on a wide branch, peering out of the foliage around him.  The wagon came into view and Robin froze.  It was not out of fear of being seen, as the blind and fading light hid him almost perfectly, but rather out of his irrational pull of curiosity.  It certainly wasn’t a noble’s wagon which might require further investigation and probably confiscation, nor a peasant’s cart that would have been ignored or even helped.  He could not see much of the driver from his high angle in the poor light, making out only a vague outline.  The white cross caught his eye as the wagon moved away, and he blinked at the sudden memory of having seen it before; the memory slipped away before he could touch it, leaving him with almost nothing to go on.  He could only identify images like a fever dream, blood and sand.  A gut feeling told Robin that he should keep an eye on this wagon’s progress and its business through the shire.

   

 As the wagon disappeared down the road, the white cross fading into the twilight, Robin’s curiosity faded, leaving him with a blend of confusion and frustration.  Firstly, he _did_ want to follow the wagon and unravel the mystery that had made him think that the wagon and driver were familiar.  Yet, he was equally desperate to visit Marian.  While her wound had long since healed, he had simply continued his frequent visits to check up on her.  Marian had not objected, so it worked out well.  It had been over a week since his last visit, and if the wagon did produce any interesting business, it might be longer.  That decided him.  He swung back down to the forest floor, and with one last look down the road after the wagon, Robin turned towards Knighton and faded into the twilight.

 

Marian looked up with an exasperated sigh as she heard the pebbles rattle through her open window and across the floor.  Robin could very well see that the open shutters and a candle sitting on the sill, all signs that she was in her room and still awake.  As she bent to pick up the rocks, another arced gently through the air to land with a soft smack in the candle, effectively extinguishing it and splattering wax in every direction.  Though she was expecting it, Marian was surprised to hear the juvenile and triumphant hiss of “Yes!” as clearly as she did. 

 

She looked out the window, severely raising an eyebrow; she could just see him in the dark, but she imagined from the angle of his head and set of his shoulder that he was pleased with his game but trying to look unaffected.  Robin took her appearance as an invitation, and he quickly scaled the short distance to her window.  Marian was slightly concerned when he didn’t show off while swinging over the bar from the stable wall; normally he was all too eager to do so.

 

“Thank you for ruining my candle,” she said in way of greeting as she settled on the sill and he leaned though the window. 

 

Robin allowed a half smile.  “Well, I’m sure it isn’t completely ruined.  And it was a _complete_ accident!”

 

“Oh, was it?”

 

He nodded his head, all innocence save his eyes which sparkled with mischief.  “Completely,” he murmured, leaning in slowly, clearly aiming his lips for hers.   

 

“What news from the greenwood, oh Robin Hood?” she teased as she put a finger against his lips just before he managed to kiss her.  Their relationship had become increasingly warm after her desertion of Gisborne at the altar, but neither of them could resist teasing the other. 

 

Expecting something trivial about Much’s cooking or news on the progress of the permanent   camp Will was currently building, Marian was surprised to see a shadow pass over Robin’s face, dulling his eyes.  “What is it?” she asked gently.

 

He shook his head.  “Nothing.” 

 

“None of that.  We agreed to speak more freely of our feelings to each other.” 

 

The humor flashed back into his expression.  “Well, I was attempting to _demonstrate_ my feelings for you, but you were the one who insisted on talking . . .”

 

Marian simply rolled her eyes before fixing her gaze back on him.  “Well?”

 

Robin sighed and refused to make eye contact for a few moments before speaking again.  “It might be nothing.  It might be something.  I saw a wagon on the Great North Road on my way here and . . . I swear I’ve seen it before, or at least the symbol that was painted on the door.” 

 

“What was it?”

 

“A white cross on a dark field.  Like a Hospitaller, but not.  There was something odd with it.”

 

“Maybe you are thinking back to your time in the Holy Land,” Marian said.  Robin had not told her a great deal about his time there, but little bits and pieces had fallen into their conversations while her wound had been healing.  This included mention of Hospitallers, who had had a small part in Robin’s recovery from the stab wound. 

 

He shook his head.  “No, I considered that.  It was like looking at a Hospitaller’s cross like I might have seen something while I was fevered – skewed, colors that were wrong, just something not _right_.  But I know I’ve seen it.  Either when I was ill or something . . .” There was a sudden finality to his voice, making it known that he didn’t want to discuss it any more.

 

Marian knew better than to press the subject.  “So, tell me what else has been happening in Sherwood.” 

 

Robin’s face eased as he began to describe Will’s latest challenges in putting together the camp – they had decided on a location, and there were issues with putting up the type of supports for what Will had in mind.  The young carpenter had a minor outburst of temper, claiming the rest of the gang to be unskilled louts when several days careful planning had come undone in a few minutes, but it passed over quickly.  Talk then turned to the villages, and they discussed the lack of wheat in Clun, a minor outbreak of flu in Treeton, and Nettleston’s quick repair of the mill after a recent storm.  Robin had come to realize that Marian wasn’t going to give up her role as the Nightwatchman, and had decided to attempt to work with her in order to best provide for the people while protecting her.  Nearly an hour passed as the couple discussed and debated their plans and routes.

 

A cough from the main floor of the manor drew Marian’s attention and she blinked at seeing the full darkness of night past Robin’s shoulder.  “You should go; it’s late.”

 

Robin chuckled.  “But you said you weren’t going on your Nightwatchman rounds tonight.” 

 

“But I am tomorrow, so I would like to sleep now.” 

 

“Yes, in your lovely bed in your snug house while I don’t even have a decent roof over my head,” Robin teased. 

 

“Will is taking care of that,” Marian said blandly.

 

“Still . . . perhaps you could give me something to help keep the night’s chill away for a while.”

 

Marian rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile with difficulty.  “I gave my spare blankets to a family in Treeton that needed them more than I did.”

 

Robin paused for a moment as if searching for a response, but settled for leaning towards Marian until their foreheads rested against one another.  “Well, then . . .” he murmured and was thoroughly relieved when Marian smiled before, during and after the kiss. 

 

“You really should go now,” Marian whispered a few moments later, her forehead still resting gently against Robin’s. 

 

“I should.  Doesn’t mean I want to.” 

 

“Go!”  But the command was said with no real sharpness.

 

Robin stole one last kiss before turning away.

 

Marian spoke just before he got to the eves. 

 

“Robin.  I will keep an eye and ear open for news of the wagon you saw and what it might be doing.  And don’t forget, your gang is there to help you too.  If this business turns out to be anything, we’ll help.”

 

He shrugged uncomfortably.  “Maybe we should just let it be.  But thank you.” 

 

“Take care of yourself, Robin,” Marian said warmly before stepping back and shuttering her windows against the night.

 

Robin slipped down to the ground once again, and lingered a few moments, gazing at Marian’s window.  He was not terribly pleased that she wanted to be involved in looking for the strange wagon, but knew that she would do so with or without any agreement on his part.  Though he could not place the connection yet, the sight of the strange white cross had driven his thoughts back to the Holy Land.  Those years of his life were possibly some of the most regrettable tangled with dim memories of blood, and sand and he had no wish to mix Marian into whatever grief may lay ahead.  With a sigh, Robin turned and slipped back into the forest.

 

 

 

Night lay heavily over the city of Nottingham as the dark wagon creaked to a halt in front of the gates.  A few words were exchanged, a token shown, and the gate was thrown open, the guard knowing better than to question.  Another guard sprinted ahead, striving to reach the castle well before the wagon in order to deliver the news to the Sheriff. 

 

“At this time of night?!” the Sheriff roared at the guard who had delivered the message.  The man had barely been awake a minute, but had full control of his normal temper, which was only made sharper by his annoyance.  “Wake Gisborne, I know he’s here somewhere.  If he wants to be part of these plans, then he will be part of them!  Send them to the Great Hall!”

 

The Sheriff had barely settled into his throne like chair in the Great Hall, sulkily wrapped in a black silk robe, when Gisborne marched into the room.  Gisborne looked slightly haggard, as if he hadn’t been sleeping that night, but he did attempt to mask his sour expression as he made his way to stand at his place just behind Vaisey.   

 

“Well, I see interrupting your beauty sleep brings about the same results as letting you have a full night’s sleep,” Vaisey said, deciding tormenting Gisborne, as natural of a sport as it was, would help pass the time until their visitor arrived. 

 

“I was not sleeping, my lord, I was going over the plans you gave me to oversee,” Gisborne replied, just barely masking his own annoyance.  “I believe there are enough peasants to spare in Locksley that we could have the final construction of the war room done within the month.  And the missives you wanted sent out to Rotheram and . . .”

 

“Yes, yes, do not bore me with repeating the tasks I gave to you!” he roared. 

 

The doors in front of them swung open and Vaisey bounced to his feet.  “Ah!  Lucian!  Here at last!  Though I rather wish you could have picked a better time of ‘day’ to arrive in Nottingham, eh?”

 

Lucian, the driver of the wagon, strode into the room carrying with him a considerable amount of presence.  His height and build were not impressive but his carriage and sharp eyes suggested someone who could easily mete out life or death as he saw fit.  It took a moment for an observer to move past these impressions to realize he walked with a severe limp.

 

“I would have thought a man such as you would have preferred the night – a prime time to work evil deeds and have them hidden from sight.”  Lucian’s voice was low and rough, reverberating around the hall.

 

“Yes, well,” Vasiey hazarded.  “I like to see my minions squirm with fear of me, and I sleep well at night knowing they have nightmares about me.” 

 

Gisborne barely restrained an utter look of disgust at the possibly poetic explanation.  The Sheriff had a flair for the dramatic, no doubt, but occasionally he was too much for Gisborne to stomach.

 

The Sheriff continued, “So, your mission went well?”

 

“Indeed.”  Lucian agreed, pulling up a chair and sitting without invitation.  He absently rubbed his right leg, which apparently had been giving him trouble.  “Sir James has agreed to join the cause, and is looking for more confederates.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he manages to find allies from Saladin’s army.  I spoke to several of your allies on my journey here.  All is going to plan.”

 

“Good, good!”  Vaisey rubbed his hands together.  “So your days in the Holy Lands are over?  Where are you planning to go now?  I can think of a few places to where you could be . . . very comfortable and . . . strategically useful.  And of course, there is the matter of your payment for your services.”

 

The mercenary knight frowned then.  “I have heard that you’ve been having some trouble in the shire,” he said without preamble.  “An outlaw and his band.”

 

“Hood,” Gisborne said succinctly, bitter.

 

Vaisey waved his hand carelessly.  “He’s hardly likely to complicate our plans overmuch.  He’s a radical former noble who, while loyal to Richard, has little pull over anyone but some of the peasant class.”

 

“A former noble?  What was his name then?”

 

“Locksley.  But as I said, he’s won’t be a problem.  We’ll be able to . . . remove him if he does become more than minor menace.”

 

Lucian smirked while the hand that had been rubbing his leg clenched.  “Robin of Locksley, was it?  I believe I want to negotiate the payment for my work now, Vaisey.” 

 

The Sheriff lifted an interested eyebrow, intrigued but mildly worried at this sudden request.  “And that would be . . ?”

 

“Allow me free movement through the shire, and I will get rid of this Robin Hood for you.”

 

Gisborne drilled the other man with a severe glare.  “Why and how would you do that?” he demanded.

 

Lucian leaned back in his chair, arrogantly returning the smirk back to the black clad lieutenant.  “I have an old score to settle with him.”  He gestured to his right leg.  “He ruined me, so I want to ruin him.  Or kill him.  That would be equally as pleasant.”

 

“What did Hood do to you?” Gisborne asked.

 

“It is a long story, but let us say that I tried to help him, he took it badly and attacked me.”

 

“What?” gasped Vaisey in mock disbelief.  “Our noble Hood?  That cannot be!”  He fell into gleeful chuckling.  “No, my friend, do as you will!  But when you kill or destroy him, I just ask for his body to display from the battlements.”

 

“That will be fine.  If you require me, I will not be hiding.”  With those words, Lucian hauled himself out of the chair and limped out of the room.

 

Gisborne bristled at the man’s cavalier attitude.  “My lord, I do not know if he should be given free rein . . .”

 

“Oh, shut it, Gisborne.  The man is ridding us of Hood, and is loyal to the cause.  If you are so jealous, just remember you were the one who failed to catch Hood on a number of occasions!”  When Gisborne did not reply or move, the Sheriff snarled, “Get out of here!”

 

With a stiff nod of his head, Gisborne left Vaisey to sit and contemplate if the joy of having someone capable of taking care of Hood and now bent on revenge was enough to make up for his interrupted sleep. 

 

 

Robin woke with a soft gasp.  For a moment the world twisted and heaved around him as reality and dream battled for the upper hand, but the cool breeze settled him.  The wind, wet and green, was so unlike the harsh, hot wind of his nightmares that it helped him leave behind the ghosts of the past faster than anything else.  He sat up, feeling a phantom ache in his side with the movement.  His nightmares would come and go as they would, a lingering punishment for his part in the Holy War; yet, an image of a white cross still hung in his mind’s eyes.  He wasn’t sure if it was from a dream memory or simply the sight of it the day before that had caused it to be the center of this particular nightmare.  Robin scrubbed his hand through his hair to chase away the remaining effects of disturbed sleep and stood stiffly. 

 

Much was working by the fire, preparing porridge for breakfast.  He watched Robin out of the corner of his eye as the outlaw leader stretched and went around to the rest of the gang, waking those that were still asleep.  Much shook his head slightly; Robin’s nightmare had been obvious to him, who had seen his master plagued by such night terrors more times than he could count.  And it always seemed that some of their worst adventures occurred the day after a nightmare.  The worst of all had been the time of the King’s birthday and the whole affair of Gisborne’s tattoo and the attack on the King in Acre.  That particular incident was the worst thus far, though the time where Much nearly died in a stream held a close second for the man.

 

Much shivered again at the thought of his near drowning.  It had all started with Robin demanding to play capture the flag with one of Gisborne’s banners.  And it was not just any banner, but one hanging over the hearth in the manor itself.  The banner was secured, but Robin and Much literally had the guards breathing down their necks as they ran out of Locksley.  The escape route included a stream crossing.  Robin had cleared the narrow span of water with ease, but Much had slipped as he jumped and fell in.  The water hadn’t been very deep, certainly not over his head, but it was fast flowing and he could not get his feet back under him.  Robin had heard his gurgled cries for help and pounded downstream in an attempt to head Much off.  The guards gave up soon after, and Robin pulled the thoroughly soaked and terrified Much from the water.  The incident had been laughed off, but Much never forgot it.  No doubt about it, Robin had to be watched closely after he had nightmares.

 

At the moment, though, Robin was not showing the normal signs of frantic mischief he normally displayed. If nothing else he was rather subdued.  Much shrugged his shoulder slightly; he’d keep an eye on Robin, nonetheless. 

 

During breakfast, the gang sat through the normal listing of tasks that had to be accomplished that day, and which villages had to be visited.  As he finished, Robin’s face darkened slightly and he paused before continuing. 

 

“As you’re out and about, lads, keep an eye out for a black gypsy wagon.”

 

Allan snorted in amusement.  “Lookin’ to have your fortune read?”

 

“It has a white cross painted on the door, and the driver wears robes like a monk.” 

 

“So, a Hospitaller?” Djaq hazarded.

 

Robin shook his head.  “It looks like it, but I don’t think so.  Someone who wants people to think he is one.  I saw it last night, but wasn’t sure if I should follow it.  But I think we should find out who he is and what he’s doing here.” 

 

Much shifted uneasily as the description was painted.  Just the mention of the Hospitallers was enough to send his thoughts spinning back to the Holy Land; Robin’s nightmare was explained now.  He was relieved that at least his master wasn’t planning something along the lines of stealing the Sheriff’s silk pajamas to beat the success of stealing Gisborne’s banner, but following this possibly false monk might not be the best idea either. 

 

Robin was in Nettleston that afternoon when he finally spotted the wagon.  It was rolling out of the village away from him as he broke the cover of Sherwood.  Instinctively, he broke into a run, wanting to follow it.  After a few moments he slowed, considering his options.  The wagon had obviously just been in the village; he could pick up intelligence there.  Despite what Much and Marian said about him, he did more often than not make a plan before launching himself into a situation.  It was not his fault no battle plan survived contact with the enemy. 

 

“Owen,” Robin said as he trotted up to the miller.

 

The man was standing defensively in front of his home, watching the wagon trundle down the road.  At the sight of the outlaw, he relaxed slightly.  “Hello Robin.  What brings you to Nettleston?”

 

Robin nodded down the road.  “At the moment, that wagon.  Do you know anything about it?”

 

Owen shook his head, but answered.  “Not very much.  The man claimed he was a . . . Hospitaller. . . yes, that was the word.  He said he had herbs and medicines to sell.  Between you and the Nightwatchman no one needed anything.  So we sent him on his way.”

 

“Right.”  Robin nodded, his thoughts turned inwards.  “If you hear anything else about it, let either me or my gang know.”   

 

“Do you think he’s trouble?” 

 

“I don’t know – and that bothers me.”  Robin sighed and turned the conversation to less shadowed subjects.  “So I see the mill is fully operational again!”

 

Owen smiled and launched into a full description of the repairs and the small celebration the village was planning for it.  Robin pushed all thoughts of the wagon and the Hospitaller to the back his mind, though he hoped the lads had more luck finding information.

 

“I saw that wagon o’ yours today, Robin,” Allan declared that night as the gang gathered back at camp.  “Was at Clun,” he continued with relish, knowing that he had an audience, “The driver was this biggish bloke with a limp.  Well, I say biggish, but he weren’t taller than John, maybe almost as wide. But he looked like it, the way he stood and walked; you had to look twice to notice the limp.” 

 

“Did you find out what he wanted or what he was doing?” Robin demanded. 

 

Allan shrugged.  “’E seemed pretty harmless.  Said he was a ‘Ospitaller, wondered if anyone needed medicines, herbs.” 

 

Robin noticed that both Much and Djaq responded to the mention of a Hospitaller.  “What?” he asked, looking intently from one to the other.

 

Djaq shrugged slightly.  “I knew of the Hospitallers – my father worked with several when I was young.  I just did not think to hear of them in England.” 

 

“Is that where you learned to speak English, from the Hospitallers?”  Will asked.

 

Djaq smiled and nodded.

 

Robin smiled himself at learning this bit of Djaq’s history, but turned to Much.  He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. 

 

“It’s nothing, Master,” Much claimed.  “It’s just . . . well, from what Allan said, this Hospitaller sounds a bit like Lucian.  Except, Lucian didn’t limp when I saw him, but . . .”  Much paused, looking at Robin a bit expectantly.  “Don’t you remember Lucian, Master?” 

 

Robin shook his head.  The description and name did nothing to dispel the shadows that shrouded whatever memories he might have had.  “You would have remembered the Hospitallers better than I would have Much, considering the state I was in when they were around.”  His voice and face closed suddenly, leaving no room for further discussion. 

 

Much, about to retort, closed his mouth rapidly enough to snap his teeth together.  To the amazement of rest of the gang, he did not press the issue. 

 

“Did this Lucian mention where he was going next?”  Robin turned to Allan.

 

“Yeah, ‘e did.  Locksley.  Planned to stay there tonight and tomorrow, maybe the next day.”   

 

“Well,” Robin said slowly, “that’s where we’ll be tomorrow.”


	2. Smoke

There was a certain sense of irony that did not escape Robin as he and the gang crept into Locksley.  The day was ending and they sky was the same blood red color that it had been when he had first spotted the wagon.  Now, the wagon was sitting serene and apparently harmless next to Locksley church.  Robin frowned.  The benign setting was nothing but a façade.

 

The day had been spent doing more investigation on the Hospitaller.  Several people in Clun had decided to chance what the man had to offer, and had been given herbs to help with muscle pain and sleeping potions.  However, their unfortunate relatives claimed that the medicines had caused more harm than good.  The wives and mothers of the victims tearfully told of fits and night terrors that could not be calmed; even now, the poor people were still too ill to get out of bed. 

 

Such mistreatment of the people under his watch only steeled Robin’s determination to confront the Hospitaller.  He needed to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the man and why he dredged up fever twisted memories of the Holy Land.  He could not say with any certainty that the man might be working for or with the Sheriff, but he knew the wagon was on the road that led to Nottingham the first night he saw it.  The people in the shire were suffering needlessly; chances were good that Vaisey was behind it.

 

A few words with the villagers of Locksley informed Robin and the gang that the Hospitaller was inside the church.  He had set up his head quarters there to perhaps convince the villagers to trust him.  They also discovered that Gisborne was still at the castle, which explained the lack of organized guards in the village.  A plan quickly formed in Robin’s mind.  He would disguise himself as a villager with an ailment and confront the Hospitaller in the church; it provided a confined area in case things went badly, and was also something of a neutral ground.  Though Robin did not hold strongly to organized religion as some – the Holy Land and the Holy War had stripped him of much of that – he still respected the power it represented to the people. 

 

“Remember lads,” Robin said as he adjusted his disguise; a worn cloak covered his hunched shoulders and a severe limp distorted his familiar figure.  “Don’t interrupt unless you have to.  Keep watch on the doors and an eye on the windows in case he tries to get out.  And be careful of the guards; Gisborne’s not here, so they might not be so eager to confront us.  But I need to sort this – for the villagers of Clun -” he hesitated and added, “and for myself.  Got it?”

 

The gang nodded wordlessly.  Much sighed, apparently his normal frustrated self when Robin had foolish plans.  Inwardly, though he was more worried than usual.  Robin should have remembered Lucian, but either his memory had been damaged by the fever more than Much felt it ought to have been, or he was purposefully forgetting it.  Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he readied himself for the task at hand. 

 

Flitting from shadow to shadow, the gang arranged themselves around the church.  Allan, Will and John settled near the front doors, able to see what was happening in the village as well as covering the exit from the church.  Much and Djaq were further away, keeping one eye out towards the manor and possible guards and one eye back towards the church. 

 

“I just don’t like this!” Much declared in a stage whisper.

 

“When do you ever like Robin’s plans, Much?” Djaq asked.  She settled her weapon within easy reach and kept up a constant scan of the surrounding area.  “Try to relax a little and focus on the task at hand.” 

 

“It’s just that,” Much growled in frustration.  “He should remember!”  Unconsciously, he reached up and ran his thumb along the thin scar across his jaw, just above his beard. 

 

Djaq looked at him curiously. “What should he remember?” 

 

“The Hospitaller, Lucian, or whoever he is!” 

 

“If he is a Hospitaller.”

 

“What do you mean?”  Much was pulled out of his own spiral of worry at the dark tone of Djaq’s voice.

 

Djaq frowned.  “Yes, the Hospitallers are healers and knights, but they are focused on guarding and caring for pilgrims to and from the Holy Land.  It makes no sense for one to come back to England . . . and Robin was right about the symbol not being correct – it is tainted.  I am wondering if this man is tainted himself.” 

 

“I would think he is,” Much muttered. 

 

Just then, Robin limped up to the church doors and opened them slowly. 

 

“Just . . . stay focused, Much,” Djaq said in her gentle but firm manner.  The man nodded, tightening his grip on his sword. 

 

The church doors swung inwards with a low groan.  Inside, the faint dusky light of candles and retreating red sunlight tangled with dust and smoke, smearing light and darkness together.  A hooded and robed figure sat at a small table in the center aisle; the altar and large cross behind it rose out of the shadows, lofty but dark.  Two large candles flanked the seated man, and a small braizer pulsing with red coals sat in front of him; smoke and guttering candle light swirled and ebbed around him.  Robin repressed a shudder as he shuffled forward; it was eerily reminiscent of the Sheriff’s guise when he was taking “French evidence” from the nobles, but far more sinister.  It was more like a fever dream or nightmare than anything.    

 

Slowly, the hooded head of the Hospitaller lifted to watch Robin as he entered the church.  The dim light prevented the outlaw from seeing much, but he hoped this would also work in his favor and prevent any recognition the man might have of him.  The Sheriff must have a hand in this, and Robin’s description could have very well been provided. 

 

“How may I help you, my son?” the Hospitaller asked in the tone that doctors and priests used when they wanted to be reassuring. 

 

Robin limped right up to the table, keeping his head down.  “If you would, sir,” he began, disguising his voice with an accent similar to Allan’s.  The Hospitaller cut him off.

 

“Just Lucian will suffice, my son.” 

 

“Lucian,” Robin agreed with a head bob.  “If you would, I ‘ave this limp.  An old ‘urt, broke it when I was a lad, acts up quite a lot.  I was ‘opin’ you’d ‘ave something for the pain and to ‘elp me sleep.”

 

A dangerous smile crossed the Hospitaller’s face.  “You have come to the right place, lad.  I can help you.”  He leaned to one side and opened the wooden medicine chest at his right hand.  “Is there anything else you require?” 

 

“Yes.”  Robin dropped the accent, threw back his hood and drew his dagger before Lucian could turn from the box.  “I want to know why you are pretending to heal innocent villagers only to harm them.”  His voice was a low growl, and he threatened Lucian’s throat with the knife.

 

Lucian chuckled.  The unexpected reaction almost caused Robin to step back, but he recovered and steadied himself. 

 

“Robin of Locksley,” Lucian said, the dark laughter still clinging to his voice.  “We meet again.” 

 

“Again?”

 

Lucian began laughing in earnest.  “You do not remember?  How could you not?  Your came to me for help, I gave it.  You then came and attacked me.  You broke my leg so thoroughly that it could not be set straight and I will walk with a limp for the rest of my days.  You then went and ruined my reputation with the other knights, so I could hardly show my face around the Hospitallers!”

 

Robin shook his head, in denial and in an attempt to make sense of what the other man was saying.  “No.  I have no memory of doing anything like that!  Who are you and how do you know me?  Are you working for the Sheriff?”

 

Lucian lurched to his feet, ignoring Robin’s knife.  “No, perhaps you would not have remembered what you did, and would have strove to forget it.”  He smirked bitterly.  “Robin of Locksley, so brave, so righteous, captain of the King’s guards, wounded in a confused night raid of Saracens attempting to kill the King.  Such a man could never do something like this,” Lucian gestured to his leg, “to a simple healer and fellow knight!”    

 

“Who are you working for?”  Robin demanded again. Fear was beginning to show in his eyes; his control over the situation was slipping and he knew it.

 

“The Sheriff and I have common interests.  One of which at the moment is seeing you dead or completely ruined.  Vaisey wants you and your petty, righteous outlawry out of the way, and I want revenge.” 

 

“Revenge for what?” Robin nearly screamed.

 

Lucian bellowed, “I told you!  You ruined me, Locksley!  My herbs help people sleep, to forget their nightmares and demons – but sometimes they have a bad reaction.  Sometimes the demons leave the dreams and invade the very room.  I cannot help when that happens, but I have helped others.  I was about to be accepted into the Order of the Knights Hospitaller, where I could have learned more!  Now I never can!  I had to turn to offering my services where I could – the Sheriff and his allies are quite willing to pay.”                  

 

“Look at you,” Robin sneered.  “Offering hope and an escape while pretending to be something you’re not, all to line your pockets with gold.  If I did ruin you, it was for the better.  Devils like you don’t deserve to walk the earth without some pain.”

 

“And you do?  You are the devil of the sort that causes pain to those close to you, and you don’t even realize it.”  Smoke eddied thick around Lucian, shrouding his face.   

 

In that instant, memory and dream separated themselves as the curl of another plume of smoke was remembered, and Robin staggered back in shock. 

 

_“Master, please let me get you something from the healers. You are not sleeping because of nightmares, and I can tell your wound is still bothering you.  Please!”_

_Robin nodded wearily.  “Fine!  Just . . . do what you will.”_

_Much bobbed his head eagerly and headed towards the door.  “There is a Hospitaller, I think, who is nearby.  I’ve heard around the market that he has herbs that help people sleep, forget . . .”_

_It had been close to dusk when Much left, so night had fallen before he returned with a small pouch.  “He said to burn the leaves and breathe in the smoke before you go to bed.  They should help you sleep.”_

_“Thank you,” Robin said simply as he took the pouch and went to his room.  “Sleep well, Much.”_

_“I hope you do, at least, Master.”_

_Robin threw the leaves onto the coals of a small brazier he had located.  They curled and smoked, but burned slowly.  The smoke was thick and pungent, but not entirely unpleasant.  He felt himself slipping away into a dark dense fog.  Something warned him that not all was right, but he was so tired, he ignored it until it was too late.  He could not find his way out of the fog._

_He struggled, fighting towards the surface.  But hands grabbed at him, shook him, shouted.  He fought back, screaming in anger and fear.  Somehow his fingers found the familiar hilt of his dagger and he drew it, slashing out in front of him at the monster that clung to him.  A startlingly familiar voice, crying in pain, cut through the fog._

_“Master!”_

_Robin gasped for breath like a drowning man and the fog slowly dissipated.  Greyness lingered around the edges of his vision, tipping and swirling the room around him.  Slowing his breathing helped.  Blinking, Robin saw a familiar form crouched against the wall, curled up defensively._

_Much._

_It was Much, with one hand pressed against his right check, blood streaming down his face.  Robin looked down at his hand; he still clutched the dagger, spots of blood marring the blade.  He dropped the weapon as if it burned him._

_“Master?” Much said hesitantly._

_Robin looked up, seeing his own shock and horror mirrored in Much’s face; but he saw concern and hurt there as well.  Blood was trickling past his fingers to clot in his beard and in the scarves swathed around his neck._

_“I,” Robin began; his voice strange and rough in his ears, “I did that . . .” The world swayed threateningly as he stood.  “Much, I . . .” He took a deep breath and caught the scent and taste of the smoke again._

_Staggering, he picked up the brazier and somehow managed to throw it out of a window.  The room cleared and the world steadied.  Much was still hunched against the wall; his face was no longer bleeding but the drying blood left a macabre mask._

_“The herbs,” Robin asked slowly, “where did you get them?”_

_Much blinked and slowly sat up.  “Lucian, the Hospitaller.  At least I think he was.  The symbol on his door was a bit off, but I thought that maybe he wasn’t that great of a painter.  But there aren’t any other Hospitallers in the area, and he didn’t really seem like the others we’ve met.  But there were so many people in the market talking about his herbs that could help with nightmares and pain and - I’ll shut up now,” he finished, realizing he was babbling._

_Thoughts whirled Robin’s head.  If this man was not a Hospitaller, but was pretending to be one, he could easily be injuring more people with his proclaimed medicines and herbs.  The people looked to the Hospitallers for protection, and this trust was being violated.  Robin could not stand for it.  “Lucian.  Where does he live?”_

_Much hesitated.  “Near the market; you can’t miss his house.  The door is black with a white cross.”_

_Robin stepped deliberately towards the door of the room, focusing on keeping his gait steady._

_“Please, Master, do not do anything reckless.”_

_“Much, this man is lying to people.  You are injured!  It is my fault!”  A flood gate of emotion opened.  “I should have never come to the Holy Land!  I certainly should not have brought you, loyal Much!  It was my mistakes that brought this about!”  He turned and left the room.  “I need to speak to this Lucian.”_

_Much’s protests faded behind him.  Somehow through the fog that lingered in his head he found his way to the market._

The images came in flashes and spurts and Robin could not stop or control them.

_The black door with the skewed white cross loomed before his eyes.  He pushed it open and found himself face to face with a robed man.  A very faint pall of smoke hung in the air, and every breath brought back the fog.  He fought it, but it still crept in, pulling at the edges of his vision._

_Robin said his name, made his accusations.  The man, Lucian, denied them but could not prove he was a Hospitaller.  Lucian made to throw Robin out.  Reacting with battlefield instinct, Robin fought back._

_They grappled, tumbling over furniture and knocking over shelves.  Lucian pulled away and sprinted for the door.  Robin leapt after him and tackled him.  They landed hard, awkward, and there was a loud_ crack _.  Lucian screamed.  Robin stood up.  The fog still filled his head, making it hard to think, to act._

_“If I hear of you tricking and harming innocent people and I can do anything to stop you, then rest assured, I will.”_

_The other man, writhing on the floor in pain, did not answer,.  Robin stumbled out of the house and back through the market._

Robin released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.  The world was unsteady as it had been in the dream, and the stench of the smoke lingered in his nostrils.  Or was that smoke that hovered about the church not incense has he had believed, but something more sinister?   

 

“Ah, now you remember.”  The light from the brazier reflected eerily in Lucian’s eyes to make them red.  He raised his hand and power fell from his fist as he slowly opened it over the brazier.  Smoke curled upwards.  “The devils that you meet are hardly like the devils you carry around in your mind, Locksley.  And I shall make sure those devils that you know will destroy you.” 

 

With the quickness of a striking snake, Lucian picked up the brazier and threw the contents at Robin’s face. 

 

Still reeling from the memories, Robin did not react fast enough.  Hot coals skittered across his face and neck and ash filled his gaping mouth.  He gasped and choked, breathing in more smoke.  Pin points of pain sparked across his face as the embers burned his skin.  With a snarl of frustration and pain, Robin pawed at his face and chest, knocking away the embers that burned his skin and singed his clothing.  Ash gritted between his teeth and stuck to his tongue.  He spat but he could still taste it, bitter and dry.  Staggering and panting for breath, he looked around for Lucian.  The man seemed to have disappeared into the smoke he created.  Robin shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut against the wisps of greyness; the smoke wouldn’t affect him yet, and he was determined not to let it. 

 

“Don’t fight it Locksley!  Accept your fate!”  Lucian’s voice seemed to throb out of the very air itself. 

 

“Face me!”  Robin picked a direction and took a step.  The world lurched around him and faded to grey.  The next moment, he found himself on his knees, blinking in confusion and pain.  “No,” he whispered.  “No!”  He pulled himself off the ground, and the greyness faded a bit.  “Get up,” he ordered himself in a whisper, “get a hold of yourself!”

 

He stood and looked around.  “Show yourself!” he bellowed at Lucian. 

 

His only answer was a deep laugh, rolling around the walls of the church like the tolling of a funeral bell.  Robin shook his head.  No, it wasn’t the church.  Or if it was, he did not know it.  The walls had retreated away into the fog, and he heard sounds of voices, shouting in the distance. 

 

Flickers of movement drew his eye, but when he looked at them head on, they disappeared.  The grey of the fog changed to a red, ebbed to dun and back to red.  The shadows were always black, forms bulky and yet quick, with curving lengths of steel at their sides.  He began to see them more and more, as they did not fade when he focused on them.  Suddenly, they began darting at him, rushing by with a breath of hot air, leaving behind the smell of blood. 

 

War cries rolled through the darkness, dim at first but building to a deafening crescendo.  He staggered, hands pressed to his ears when the shadows charged again.

 

“Saracen attack!” he bellowed, the words spilled out of his mouth before his mind knew he’d formed them. 

 

Raised voices broke through the tumult, speaking in a language he did not understand.  Hands grabbed for him, weapons stabbed at him, but he tore away.  A small shadow darted towards him; it was not robed as the others had seemed to be, but a sword was at its side, its featureless face dusky and dangerous.  He could not move away fast enough, but suddenly remembered the dagger clutched in his hand.

 

As the shadow touched him, he reached for it, and suddenly spun the figure about, an arm locking around the narrow shoulders across the chest, and the knife blade going to the throat. 

 

“Don’t move,” he hissed.  “Order your comrades to leave and I’ll release you.  Otherwise, I’ll cut your throat.” 

 

The captive shadow trembled but must have obeyed.  A string of incomprehensible words floated out into the air, and the other shadows retreated.  Yet, they hovered nearby, barely visible through the fog.  So he did not release his captive.    

 

 

Several long minutes passed after Robin entered the church.  Much fidgeted, growing more worried by the moment.  Suddenly, he heard the sound of Robin’s voice, shouting. He jumped up, but Djaq pulled him back down.

 

“Remember!  Robin said not to interrupt!  Quickly now, watch for guards, they could have been attracted by his shouting.” 

 

“Fine!  Fine!” Much groused.  “But I am going to blame you when something happens to Robin.  No, wait, I’ll blame him, and then myself.”

 

Djaq just rolled her eyes. 

 

From his station near the church doors, Little John could make out most of the muffled words that were being shouted back and forth.  They made no sense to him out of context, but it did not sound dangerous.  There was a lull for a few moments, and all John could hear was his own quiet breathing.  Then, a sudden crash broke the silence and Robin shouted in pain and surprise. 

 

“Allan, Will!” John called as he surged out of his hiding place.  “We go, now!” 

 

Allan whistled sharply, waving his arm at Much and Djaq before turning to join the other two outlaws at the church doors. 

 

“Much, Dajq, with me,” John ordered.  “Allan, Will, guard the door.  If Gisborne’s men come, warn us.”

 

The door swung open with a firm push from John, and the outlaws recoiled from the smoke that rolled out.

 

“Is he tryin’ to burn the church down?”  Allan cried.

 

“Robin!” Much shouted, peering through the smoke. 

 

A form appeared from the smoke.  Despite his limp, Lucian could still move with speed, and he lunged out at the gang with murder in his eyes.  “Damn you Locksley and all associated with you!” he bellowed as he sprang forth, a dagger gleaming in his hand. 

 

But before the gang could so much as move to defend themselves, Lucian’s game leg caught on the edge of the step leading down from the church.  He stumbled and fell.  A gurgling cry escaped his lips before he shuddered and fell silent.  He had fallen on his own knife. 

 

Even as the gang stood silent and shocked, Robin screamed from inside the church.  It was a cry of terror and pain. 

 

“Robin!” Much cried again, rushing into the church.  He could see better now, as most of the smoke had cleared.  The rest of the gang followed.

 

Inside, they saw Robin backed up against a wall, eyes wide but blank.  He did not react as they entered, but focused at random places along the pews and behind the altar.  Every line of his body was tense, but his movements were slow and jerky, as if he wasn’t controlling his own limbs. 

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Will asked quietly. 

 

Djaq was sniffing the air and prodding at the medicine chest, now dumped across the floor.  “That smoke . . . it is not wood smoke or incense.  It is some sort of drug.”  She straightened and began to cross the room to Robin.  “He is not seeing this world, but one that his mind has created because of the smoke.” 

 

Much rushed forward and grabbed Djaq’s shoulder to stop her.  “Stop.  I mean, I’ve seen him like this before.  That’s why I remembered Lucian, and he didn’t.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Djaq asked.

 

Shaking his head, Much told the gang of his first meeting with Lucian on his search to find something to help Robin in the wake of his injury at Acre.  The supposed cure had forced Robin to live out his nightmares while he was awake, and he attacked Much in self defense. 

 

Much ran his finger over the faint scar on his cheek again.  “He still has his dagger now.”

 

“I’m going to try to talk to him, Much, and try to get the knife away from him before he does anyone harm.”  Djaq looked over at Robin.  “He seems to be calming.  Perhaps he recognizes our voices.” 

 

The gang stood uneasily as Djaq made her way to Robin.  The man appeared to try to follow her progress, but his eyes kept darting about, wary of the rest of the gang.  Just as she was within arm’s reach, Robin loosed a terrifying snarl and grabbed Djaq and put the knife to her throat.

 

“Don’t move,” he hissed; his voice was stilted and uneven.  “Order your comrades to leave and I’ll release you.  Otherwise, I’ll cut your throat.” 

 

“Robin,” Djaq began, choked, but his simply pressed the knife harder against her throat.  “Do as he says, back away.” 

 

“No, Djaq,” Will said firmly, his eyes betraying his fear. 

 

“We can’t just leave you – both of you!” Much cried. 

 

“Just back away!” Djaq snapped.  “If we do as he says, he eventually will come out of the dream.  If not . . .” 

 

“Out the doors, now!” John ordered. 

 

The lads hurried out, but could force themselves no further than the steps.  They shuffled around, trying to keep Djaq and Robin within sight, but to stay as far away from Lucian’s body as possible. 

 

“I can’t believe this,” Allan muttered.  “This is one of the maddest things that’s ever happened to us.  One of the gang held captive by the supposed leader!  Who is livin’ a nightmare or somethin’!” 

 

The rattle of hoof beats spun them around to face whatever new threat appeared.

 

“What now?” Much groaned. 

 

The horse didn’t appear, but a few breathless moments later a cloaked and hooded figure appeared from around the side of the church. 

 

“Marian?” the gang chorused. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Much demanded. 

 

Marian removed her mask and scarf.  “I’m not sure.  I just had a feeling . . . Where is Robin?”

 

“Well, that is a bit difficult to explain,” Much began but Will interrupted him.

 

“Robin confronted a false Hospitaller, who drugged him, and now Robin is holding Djaq captive because he thinks he’s in some sort of nightmare world where we are a threat.” 

 

The color drained completely from Marian’s face at his words.  “And you are all just standing here?” she demanded.  “Your leader and Djaq are both in danger, and what are you doing about it?”  Her own fear manifested as frustration. 

 

“Djaq was trying to talk to him when he grabbed her,” Much said.  “He should shake the effects of the smoke soon, but . . . this is worse than the first time.” 

 

“The first time?”  Marian whirled on Much.  “What do you mean?”

 

“We met Lucian in the Holy Land.  Well, I say met, when I mean that I got herbs from him to help Robin sleep as he was recovering from his wound; Robin had “waking nightmares” or something, and well . . . I got in the way trying to stop him, and it didn’t end as well as it might have done.  He seemed to come out of it, but went out and found Lucian.  I wasn’t there, but I heard later that they fought and Robin broke his leg.  Lucian’s I mean. So Lucian must have come back to England looking for revenge-”

 

“Much!” the entire gang shouted. 

 

“Sorry.” 

 

Marian chewed her lip uncertainly.  “Do we know how long it will take before Robin comes back to reality?”

 

“There was a lot of that smoke in the church, I’m pretty sure he got a good dose,” Will observed.  “But the doors are obviously open now, so that should be helping.”       

 

The sudden glint in Marian’s eye was far too close to Robin’s when he had a foolhardy scheme but before anyone could articulate a protest, she spoke.

 

“What if I tried talking to him?” 

 

“D’ya see how far that got Djaq?” Allan gestured violently to the interior of the church. 

 

Marian glared at Allan a moment before looking at Much.  “You told me once Robin had dreams in the Holy Land and said my name.  Were some of those dreams nightmares?” 

 

“Well, I suppose most of them were,” Much started, “but I don’t see what that has to do with this-”

 

“And you told me that he is basically living his nightmares now?  Yes?  Let me talk to him.  He may recognize me where he didn’t recognize Djaq.” 

 

“What if he tries to hurt you?” Much demanded.

 

“I’ll be prepared for it.”  She reached out squeezed Much’s shoulder gently.  “Trust me.”

 

Without waiting for any further discussion from the gang, Marian walked into the church.  After what she and Robin had been through, she felt that if she could not get through to him, no one could.  And if she was not willing to face possible danger to help him when he needed it most, as he had done for her, what was the point of them continuing their relationship?  

 

The fog weighed heavily on his limbs.  Yet, the darkness was retreating, so perhaps it was pure weariness that pulled on him.  It would be wonderful to rest; his eyes drifted shut.  His captive shifted in his arms, pulling him back to awareness.  Blinking rapidly, he readjusted his hold on the knife.  The captive was speaking, but not to him.  He looked up.  The shadowy figures of the other attackers still lingered around the borders of the fog but they made no move to advance.  But another, unfamiliar figure approached him slowly. 

 

He shook his head, fighting the clutch of the fog.  The new figure was not shadowy as the others had been, but seemed to have a faint edging of light.  It also spoke in a language he did not understand, but it was soothing, almost familiar.  Troubled, he fought to understand this new development.  All he knew was that his captive was his only bargaining piece and thus would not be surrendered easily.  When the figure was a few steps away, he lifted the knife to a more threatening angle on the captive’s neck.

 

“Stop there,” he ordered.  “Who are you?”

 

The figure stopped and backed a step as if to give him room.  For some reason, he began to refer to the figure as “she” when she began to speak again.  He wondered at his stupidity in asking for an identity.  He still could not understand the words that seemed to float through the air before making gentle contact with his ears.

 

She continued to speak long past any explanation of name, rank and purpose could have lasted.  All the while, he stood silent and mute, unexplainably soothed and intrigued by her voice.  He stopped grasping for understanding even though everything about it was achingly familiar.  He just let it ebb and flow around him, gently brushing away at the fog. 

 

Some unknown amount of time had passed when he realized with a shock that there were words that he suddenly understood and could put meaning to.

 

_Robin._

 

He was Robin.  That was his name.  She was calling him by his name. 

 

Images and words began to leap and collide in his mind.  

 

_Locksley, the gang, Sherwood, horse races, escapes, archery, chases, home, Knighton, whispered promises, fear, pain, love. . . Marian._

_Marian._

A rush of images, feelings, and words swirled in his head before suddenly and inexplicably gently falling into place.  Marian. 

 

He tried the word out, slowly, stiffly, with the new found understanding of the language she had been speaking.

 

“Marian.” 

 

“Robin?”  The figure stepped towards him but he did nothing to stop it.  “Do you recognize me?”

 

He blinked.  The fog still lingered, the world was fuzzy and unsteady.  The figure before him hovered between the light gilded shadow he had known and the truth he knew to be Marian. 

 

“Marian?” he whispered. 

 

The shadows around her face were fading away, leaving behind only features that he knew and loved.  He focused on those feelings and thoughts; the rest of the world was too uncertain to deal with yet.  She continued to speak, a calm but firm litany that rose and fell in the air around him.  Words that had no meaning gently slotted themselves into place with each repetition until he understood.  

 

“Robin.  Put down the knife.  It is alright.  You are safe.  Put down the knife.  You know me.”

 

He glanced down at the knife against his captive’s throat.  He wanted to listen to Marian, but his fear of the shadow figures lingered on. 

 

“You are safe, Robin.  Put down the knife.” 

 

He looked back up at her.  “Marian.” 

 

“Yes.  You know me.  Please trust me.  You are safe.  I am with you.  Put down the knife.”

 

Uncertain still, he dropped the knife on the ground but did not let go of his captive. 

 

“Robin, you can let her go.  Let her go and take my hand.”  Marian extended her hand to him slowly.    

 

He hesitated for a few long heartbeats before pulling his arms away from the captive.  Strange, he had not noticed the trembling in the captive’s body until he let go.  Then, he reached out and took Marian’s hand. 

 

The world swayed around her as she stepped forward and ran her hand gently along his cheek.  “Can you tell me who you are?”

  
“Robin,” he whispered.  He heard a noise behind Marian and looked.  The gang hovered on the edges of the fog.  He blinked, but the shadows he thought he saw around them dissipated.  “What . .?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Marian whispered. 

 

Disjointed images flickered through Robin’s head.  Lucian, a smoking brazier, a shadow that resolved itself into . . .

 

“Djaq,” he muttered, alarmed, looking around. 

 

She had retreated to the door of the church with the rest of the gang.  He could see her fear and the mark that the knife had left on her throat.

 

“I’m . . . sorry,” he whispered, the lingering fog making it hard put words one next to one another. 

 

“Guards!”  The distinctive voice of Gisborne rang out harshly through the near silent village. 

 

Robin started, eyes darting about in fear.  The new threat didn’t have a name in his clouded mind yet, but he knew it was not good.   

 

“Oh, great!” Allan shouted.  “Gisborne and his men are closin’ in!  We need to scatter!”

 

“Who was keeping watch?” Much cried.  “Allan, I think that was you!”

 

“Well, I’m watchin’ now, and they’re gonna be on us in a few seconds, so let’s move!”

 

Robin staggered back at the sudden tumult, his unsteady senses overwhelmed.  Marian steadied him, her hands gently gripping his shoulders. 

 

“Robin, look at me.  I need you to walk with me out of here.” 

 

They took a few steps forward, but the world lurched wildly and Robin stumbled.  “Dizzy,” he gasped.

 

“Close your eyes and I’ll lead you out.  We need to hurry.” 

 

Robin allowed himself to be led out of the church, trusting Marian to prevent his feet from stumbling and the world from collapsing.  Outside, the voices of the gang surrounded him, babbling in confusion, fear and worry. 

 

Marian suddenly spoke to him again, her breath ghosting warm over his ear and cheek as she bent close to whisper to him. 

 

“Robin, you need to get on the horse and ride to Sherwood.  Can you manage?” 

 

He opened his eyes and looked at the animal in front of him.  He reached slowly for the stirrup but his legs didn’t want to cooperate with his arms and he stumbled against the wide grey flank instead. 

 

“Move.” 

 

Little John was suddenly next to him.  Robin felt himself lifted into the air and quickly scrambled to stay upright as he felt saddle leather under his hands and stomach.  He righted himself just as Much sprang onto the horse behind him. 

 

“Get him to camp as fast as you can,” Marian said.  “The rest of the gang and the Nightwatchman will distract Gisborne.” 

 

“I want to help,” Robin said, a hint of petulance in his voice.  He was supposed to be the one heckling Gisborne, wasn’t he?  His jumbled memory was telling him that much at least and pieces continued to fall into place with each passing moment. 

 

“Master, you’re the reason they’re doing the distracting.  Please just hang on.”  With that Much kicked the horse into a canter and urged it into the dusk towards Sherwood. 

 

Several hours later, the gang straggled back to camp in pairs.  Robin was hunched with his head between his hands next to a fire.  Much wandered about, torn between needing to do something useful and the desire to hover over Robin and make sure he was all right.  Djaq and John arrived first; the big man simply inspected Robin with the eye of a father, and determining that he was past any real danger, settled himself in one corner of camp to keep watch.  Djaq hesitated on the opposite side of the fire from Robin for a few moments before steeling herself and assuming her physician’s attitude.

 

“Robin, I would like to examine you,” she said as she walked over to the man. 

 

He looked up.  His eyes had regained their clarity and they instantly fell on the raw line on Djaq’s throat.  “That . . . was one of the more embarrassing and regrettable incidents in my life,” he said slowly. “I put my gang’s life at risk, and probably almost did more harm than I could have ever repaired.” 

 

Djaq hummed noncommittally as she did a quick inspection of Robin’s reflexes and vitals.  When she finished she stood and said, “It is not the first time that an Englishman held a knife to my throat.” A flicker of fear and disappointment crossed her face as she continued. “But it was the first time one that I respected did.” 

 

Robin dropped his gaze back to the ground, guilt twisting his gut. 

 

Allan and Will returned a short while later. 

 

“How you feelin’, Robin?” Allan called as he accepted a plate of food from Much. 

 

With a slight groan, Robin lifted his head and replied, “Like the morning after a drinking competition gone wrong.” 

 

Allan snorted in laughter, and the mood hanging over the camp lightened a degree.  

 

A branch cracked underfoot and Robin whipped around to see Marian.  She pulled off her mask and scarf to show her sweaty but very relieved face.  Robin’s face lightened though he did not smile and he stood, walking over to Marian.  She smiled at him and allowed him to take her hand and lead her into camp.  Much handed her a plate of food – Robin had no stomach or inclination to eat, so there was easily an extra share – and the couple settled in a corner of camp away from the rest of the gang. 

 

They sat silently for some time, only half watching the gang as they went about their nightly habits.  Marian ate slowly, as her left hand was held captive by one of Robin’s.  When she finished, Robin drew her close and held her; he didn’t relinquish her hand.  The gang respectfully kept their distance and eventually fell asleep.  The fire had died down to softly pulsing coals and gentle flames before Robin spoke. 

 

“I never wanted you to see . . . I didn’t want you to know about the demons I brought back with me from the Holy Land,” he said softly.

 

Marian squeezed his hand gently.  “I have seen shadows, though.  You can’t tell me that fight you had with Gisborne on the King’s birthday wasn’t fueled by some of those memories.  I saw your face when you recognized the tattoo.”

 

Robin shook his head almost violently.  “You weren’t in danger from me, then.  Today . . . today I could have very well killed one of my own gang, and then gone for you.  I couldn’t even remember my own name!  All I saw where threats, everyone was an enemy; it was all blood and sand and smoke.”  He twisted so he could look her in the eye.  “Whatever possessed you to approach me when I had a knife to Djaq’s throat?  Didn’t the gang have the sense to stop you?  If I had harmed or killed Djaq, that would have been bad enough, but if I had hurt you . . . I would have never been able to forgive myself!” 

 

“Hush Robin,” Marian soothed; his voice had risen to nearly a shout by the end of his speech.  “It was something Much told me once, not long after you returned to Nottingham.” 

 

“What was it?”

 

“He said that in the Holy Land, you had dreams and called my name.  So if you had called out for me then, you most certainly would recognize me now.”  She leaned closer, inviting a kiss but not initiating it.

 

Robin looked at her in wonder for a moment.  He brushed her cheek with his thumb lightly before closing the distance between them, his lips claiming hers gently.  “You are a marvel,” he whispered as the kiss ended.  He continued with a hint of his impish grin sparking to life, “And you are my marvel.”

 

Marian smirked.  “I am my own marvel, thank you.”  She continued more seriously.  “Just remember Robin, we are both facing the devils in Nottinghamshire.  When those monsters bring back demons from the past, we can face them together as well.”

 

Robin said nothing but kissed her again, with a stronger flame of passion than the last.  He knew he could not protect Marian from everything he wanted to, but he was determined to shield her from the shadows of his past as much as he could.  Yet, there was a part of him that ached with something that he could only describe as love to know that Marian was willing to accept him and all his demons.  Few men could hope for as much.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on lj and ff.net. Also, I didn't do a lot of research for the herb referenced here. I am sure there is something out there that could produce such effects, however, I chose to let it be ambiguous, and RHBBC isn't known for it's research. Lazy writing, perhaps, but I will own up to it.


End file.
